


Sleeper

by marleymars



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Memory Alteration, Past Brainwashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-11-09 14:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11106288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marleymars/pseuds/marleymars
Summary: Ignis had never understood the phrase, “a smile that could light up a room,” until the day he met Prompto Argentum.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HOo boy, am I nervous about posting this. I don't think I've ever written anything like it. I hope it's sad enough. 
> 
> Special Note: PLEASE HEED THE ARCHIVE WARNINGS AND THE TAGS. The last one is especially important.

“Ignis.” He had never heard his name spoken in such a strained, bleak manner. It sounded not very much like Noct’s voice at all, but it _was_ him. Ignis was aware of that. He was aware of many things in that moment, even as he prayed that he could know nothing, that the Six would bless him with oblivion.

Such a selfish desire, and yet for a moment the thought consumed him and he only just managed to shove it down, swallowing the wrenching emotions as they threatened to choke him.

Where he knelt on the ground was cold; grit from the earth, once dry and dusty, dug into his knees through the fabric of his trousers. There was blood now, as well. Too much. It soaked into the ground, into his clothing. The air was crisp and silent, but it burned into his lungs as he tried to breathe evenly, tried not to give into the heaving urge building in his chest. Around him, the barren ground at the side of the road was littered with the scattered remnants of MT armor, the earth tacky with the black ichor that came from slaying the creatures.

He was aware of all of this and more. But none of it mattered. How could anything possibly matter to him ever again?

“Ignis.” Noct’s voice again, thick and unbearable. “Ignis, we...we can't stay here, we have to…,” He trailed off. Ignis didn't reply. Couldn't. He should. Some part of his mind hissed of duty, but what did he care of duty? The word felt empty to him now, hollow, where it had once carried so much weight, a weight he’d had shouldered so many years without complaint.

They should _not_ have left the city so close to nightfall. No mission could be so crucial to sanction such such folly. He found himself desperately picking apart his memories from these last hours, looking for a way he could have changed things. Useless. Pointless. He cared not, though, could not stop the tirade of _if only’s._ This could _not_ be happening. It could _not_ be _real._

_“Ignis.”_ Another plea. Ignis should have been the one trying to get them moving. Either himself or Gladio, but they were of no use, they had been of _no use, they had not been able to protect--_

Footsteps. A shadow. Night surrounded them but the moon was high. Something had felt wrong about that night as they'd traveled through the dead zone. If Ignis had heeded his instincts, if he hadn't been so bloody stubborn--!

“We can't stay here,” Noct’s voice said, closer now, still tremulous and so unlike him. The prince was kneeling beside Ignis, though he had no memory of Noct getting so close.

Ignis knew he should answer his prince, but he couldn't. Couldn't speak, couldn't stop his mind racing for a moment. If he did, he might break, might start screaming. His lungs ached to howl, to rage, to grieve, but he couldn’t let go of that one last tenuous thread of control he possessed. To speak would be to snap, to shatter into a million pieces that he could never hope to reassemble.

_Let go._ A nasty little thought that lacerated his already waning grasp on sanity. _This is your fault. You let this happen. You let him d--_

No! He could not accept it. This could not be real, this could _not_ \--

The leaden weight of a still, lifeless hand clutched within his own shaking grasp begged to differ, the freckled skin too pale, bloodless, limp, de--

Again, his mind groped backward, searching for the moment it had all gone wrong. He couldn't fix it, couldn't go back and change anything, but rational thought had abandoned him.

Memories flashed and he wrapped himself in them, ignoring Noct’s whispered appeals.

_They were getting ready to leave, suiting up. Ignis was leery of undertaking a mission so late in the day, but there was an outpost that had gone dark and theirs was the only squad available to make the run. It should be quick, easy, they were well-equipped and the prince would be with them. They would need his magic to restore the Crystal’s power to the outpost, if it were not already overrun by daemons or those grotesque, rogue MTs. If there were survivors they would need rescue, if there were not then the team needed to recover the outpost and drive out the daemons. They had done so before, so it should not have been an issue._

_None of that mattered; Ignis still didn’t like it, his instincts told him that there was something that didn't add up. How had an outpost suddenly stopped communicating in the middle of the day? Daemons could not attack when the sun was up, and the Magitek creatures were unlikely to try, even less likely to succeed. But the task needed doing. Noct had already agreed, and had listened to Ignis’ suspicions. They were going in prepared._

Prepared. A joke. The MTs they had encountered were not corrupted, mindless rogues. They were brand new, impossible. They had been vicious, meticulous. They had been _under control._

The Crownsguard could not have known, could not have predicted this, but Ignis had known _something_ was wrong. He should have insisted, should have refused. He should have taken his concerns to the king, thrown a tantrum, delayed them in any way until more units could be spared, and damn the consequences.

But Ignis Scientia had always been a good soldier above all else. He obeyed, he followed and protected his prince. _You cannot protect him. You cannot protect anyone, you couldn't even protect the one who lov--_

_“Iggy, can I talk to you for a sec?” Ignis looked up, saw Prompto hovering nearby, only half -dressed in his Crownsguard gear._

_“We need to get going,” Ignis said, but he heard the indulgent waver in his own voice, and Prompto did too. He smiled, and his smile was truly something to behold, even small and shy as this one was. Ignis had never understood the phrase, “a smile that could light up a room,” until the day he met Prompto Argentum._

_“Just for a second. I wanna...I have to tell you something,” Prompto said, hopeful. Ignis sensed the nervousness, the change in tone to seriousness so unlike carefree Prompto._

_“All right,” he said as he tightened the laces on his boot and stood. He could always spare a moment for Prompto._

_He was led to a small, empty room, used to house spare equipment. An odd meeting place, but as private as could be hoped for in the busy barracks._

_“Is something the matter?” Ignis asked._

_“No,” Prompto said, shutting the door, closing them into the dimly little space. “I'd just...we've been doing...this thing between us for a while. And I just want you to know that--,” he paused, swallowed hard. Ignis felt his heart begin to pound. “I want you to know how much you mean to me. I know I'm not--I'm just a normal person, not a royal or anything. But being with you just makes me so happy. I...I love you, Ignis.”_

“I'm sorry,” he croaked. It barely sounded like words, as if he were too broken inside to produce anything but strangled whispers. Speaking hurt, just as he'd feared, but he held on, tooth and nail, to his shredded control.

He realized he was shaking, the trembling in his limbs wracking his entire body. Perhaps if he shook hard enough he would be torn asunder and cease to exist. _You would like that, wouldn't you? Then you wouldn't have to live with yourself._

“Ignis,” Noct again, hoarse and labored and grieving. A hand reached out, fingers grazed the back of Ignis’ gloved knuckles. Ignis jerked like he'd been struck. He registered that the pale hand was still clasped between both of his own. Clutched in the lifeless fingers was a crumpled feather, brilliant orange like a lick of flame. It wasn't working. There was no sign of life in the still form he knelt beside, and the enchanted feather remained whole instead of flickering away into a burst of healing cinders. 

“We have to...we have to go, Ig-Ignis. I'm...We have to…,” Noct sounded so lost, so anguished, but he was _trying._ “Please, Ignis. He's...he's _gone.”_

A breath tore out of Ignis, like shards of glass. Noct tried again, his own shaking arm going around Ignis’ shoulders, a gesture of comfort so unlike him to offer. Ignis felt something spasm in his chest, and it took a monumental effort not to sob.

“We can't leave him,” Ignis managed. It took him three tries before he was able to speak past the knife-sharp tightness in his throat. His mouth felt so dry. Nothing felt real. None of this could be _real._

“Gladio can carry him,” Noct whispered, but Gladiolus was sitting ten feet away from them on a rock, back turned, one large hand pressed over his face. He gave no sign that he had heard them, though their soft voices seemed loud in the still night.

Ignis shook his head. No. This was his burden. _My fault._ He would not forsake it.

When he looked again at Prompto’s face, he thought that might be the moment he lost his grip. A wave of grief, of unreality, pain and denial crashed through him, over him, battered him. He sucked in a shuddering breath, and unclenched one of his hands from Prompto’s fist. Ignis had folded those clever fingers around the phoenix down himself, but it was too late by the time he had reached Prompto’s side. _I should have been faster, I should have--_

There was a thin trickle of drying blood running from the corner of Prompto’s mouth, down his cheek and jaw. The seam of his lips was caked shut with blood, his mouth probably flooded with it, his teeth stained-- _he choked on his own blood because you weren't fast enough!_

Ignis wiped his thumb over the blood trail, smudging it away. Prompto’s skin was still warm, though the night air was fast leaching the last of that away. There was another awful lurch in Ignis’ chest, and he heard the little gasp he made as it escaped. Numbly, he reached up to close Prompto’s eyes. Those beautiful, vivid eyes, blue-violet, unlike any Ignis had ever seen.

_“I...I love you, Ignis.”_

Before Ignis could think, he was leaning forward over the empty shell that had been so full of life an hour ago. He kissed Prompto’s forehead, and only just managed not to break. What he wanted was to clutch Prompto to his chest, to wail and curse the gods. He wanted to feel nothing. He wanted to die.

_An ambush. Whatever Ignis had been expecting, it wasn't that. Magitek troopers didn't stage ambushes, they were less cunning than the daemons. But that was what they faced--a full unit of MTs, functional and_ _deadly. Their movements were unnatural, jerky, disturbing. Something was controlling them, directing them. It wasn't possible, but Ignis couldn't deny proof when it was dangled before his eyes._

_Orders flew from his mouth before he had fully processed what he was seeing. Noct would keep to the edges, harrying the creatures with warp strikes, Gladio would charge in swinging, Prompto would_ _stay at a distance, providing cover fire, and Ignis would slip amongst them, driving daggers into weak points._

_What they ought to have done was retreat._

He lifted Prompto slowly, somehow gaining his feet. Prompto--not _the body,_ Prompto--was horribly limp, heavy with the weight of death. Ignis had had a cat when he was younger, and he remembered vividly the day she’d died, how much heavier she had felt when he'd carried her outside to bury. He'd loved that cat.

This was worse. This was Prompto. _His_ Prompto. It still didn't feel real. How could it? There was a hole in Prompto’s chest where the grappling wire had punctured through his body, ugly and gaping. Ignis had covered it with his coat, but _Six_ there was so much blood. Sticky and horrific and _everywhere._ Ignis would never be able to scrub the feeling of it from his skin.

_“I...I love you, Ignis.”_

He could hear the words like they were being spoken in his ear. Prompto nearly tumbled from his arms as he stumbled. The body was still, though, empty, the thrum, the spark of life absent. His imagination. Prompto couldn't--wouldn't ever speak again.

Ignis gritted his teeth against the agony boiling inside of him. They were vulnerable.

He didn't care.

He _had_ to care.

Noct was guiding him back to the car. Gladio was on his feet, following them, expression grey and grim. None of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

The car sat where they had left it, parked crookedly in the middle of the crumbling road, unscathed. They had never reached the outpost. A Magitek engine had descended from the sky, and they had been drawn into battle. If Ignis had kept driving, ignoring Noct’s command to pull over…

_“We can't just let it fly off!” Noct was right. Where had the engine even come from? Impossible. The empire had been defeated, overrun by daemons decades ago._

Noct drove. Gladio argued, but it was half-hearted--Noct was the only one who was forcing himself to function. It was shameful that Ignis had let himself shut down, or it would have been if he could feel anything besides his own numb despair and loss.

Gladio didn't need to think to perform his duties, he could shut himself off from emotion and defend them if they were attacked again, but Ignis had nothing left to give. Nothing could permeate the cold that had settled into his chest and bones. If they were ambushed again, he would sit mutely and let them take him.

He could not let go of Prompto even if he wanted to. His arms would not relax. Some deep, primal part of him wanted to hold onto that lingering warmth, as if that might bring Prompto back, if he just held on long enough.

_He won't come back. You let this happen and you will carry it._

Ignis cradled Prompto in his arms, curled into the back seat. He pressed their foreheads together and let silent tears fall between them. That much, he could not control.

_“I...I love you, Ignis.” Prompto spoke the with such delicate, deliberate passion. He had such depth to his emotions, and everything he felt, he felt strongly. Honesty and compassion were hallmarks of his personality, and he professed his emotions with a vibrancy Ignis could feel in his core._

_“Why are you bringing this up now?” Ignis asked, going for teasing, playful. His mind was racing, trying to process what Prompto was saying. Ignis was not used to feeling out of his depth, and his political training demanded that he regain control of the situation. But that was a mistake. He saw the flash of hurt, of disappointment, in Prompto’s eyes, and knew he'd fucked up._

_“I just...this is my first mission outside the walls since...I just wanted to say it, so you knew. You don't have to say it back, if you're not ready,” Prompto said, earnest and entreating. Of course he'd already forgiven Ignis. Prompto Argentum possessed such a kind and gentle heart; Ignis often found himself overwhelmed by it. Speechlessness was not something he was familiar with either, and it made him feel like he was losing control; he both wanted to resist that loss and embrace it, and it dizzied him._

_Ignis stepped forward, closing the space between them, and kissed Prompto for all he was worth. It wasn't the same as words, not as powerful or lasting, but he couldn't bring himself to give voice to how he felt about the bold, young Crownsguard for one simple reason._

_He was afraid._

x

Somewhere far away in a dimly lit room, Prompto opened his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short, but I feel like it conveys what I wanted it to. I'm also going with a different format for this story I guess? The chapters will probably vary in length. I have a lot of this story written but it's all in pieces that I have to figure out how to fit together, it's a lot more scattered than how I normally write D:
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for your response to the first chapter! I felt so weird thanking people who were screaming and crying and cursing me, but I am glad that you all enjoy my writing so much and that you still trust me after I killed the Best Boy. <3<3

Waking was a slow process, his mind sluggish, barely aware. First there was beeping, distant, all sounds echoing to him as if through an endless tunnel. Gaining consciousness was like fighting through thick, sucking mud, his mind a hazy bog with no clear end in sight. Fighting didn't seem worth it. The fog that enveloped him was heavy, dragging against his efforts to think, to remember. 

He wasn't  _ tired. _ It was more like lethargy, like he'd spent a day lazing about and didn't have the energy to move now. Was he sick? There was a memory of...of  _ something.  _ Whatever it was, he couldn't quite grasp it, but it was bad. It was something that hurt, something to fear. Something he didn't want to remember, and so for a long time he simply let himself drift. It was too hard to hold onto thoughts, anyway, like grasping at wisps of smoke. Remaining in the swirling depths of the fog was safe. Not in a comforting way, but it was better than what waited for him beyond, he was sure.

Until dreams began to find him in the haze, that is. At first it was quiet, peaceful almost. He'd seen a bright light, all consuming, burning away everything that he was until he was _ nothing, _ and then he had been  _ cold, _ so very cold. Now he was there, floating in that heavy nothingness. 

When the first dream came, he almost didn't realize anything was different. He was drifting, formless, through nothing, and then suddenly he wasn’t. 

The space around him shifted, and he saw something. No--some _ one. _ A person. Their shape was vague and undefined, just like his own. He tried to move toward them, but the swirling mists made it impossible to judge how far away they were. It was odd to perceive himself as being in a space that he could move through, a space he could define, when for so long there hadn’t been anything around him, and he himself hadn’t really been anything. Then he opened his mouth--when did that happen? Where had his body come from? But he had a mouth now, and arms and  hands, and he reached out, called out, though he made no sound. And the figure  _ jerked. _ The head spun, and he saw two blazing red eyes directed right at him, burning, blazing, and the figure turned, its movements unnatural, shuddering, and it leapt toward him--

Something struck his chest, and he looked down, but there was nothing there. Nothing again, his body was gone. The haze had returned, the red-eyed figure nowhere to be seen, as if it had never been there in the first place. So he let himself drift away again, released the fear. As much as he tried to turn back into himself, to forget again, he could not rid himself of the feeling that there was something lodged in his nonexistent chest. 

The next time the fog cleared it was lighter, gentler. He found himself at a table, solid again, sitting in a place that he recognized from... _ somewhere. _ A room, a couch he’d sat on before, the air holding a charge of familiarity so sharp he could almost taste it. People surrounded him, watching him, people he knew, though he couldn't remember their names or where he knew them from. They were all smiling, nothing like the shadowy, red-eyed figure, but there was a sadness in their eyes that made him ache nonetheless. 

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, surprised to hear his own voice. He’d forgotten what it sounded like, how it felt to speak. Something told him he had spent a lot of time talking before he came to be within this emptiness. 

One of the people reached out to him, patted his shoulder. The gesture warmed him, filled him with a sense of peace and acceptance that filled an empty space inside of him. “It's not your fault,” the man said, his dark blue eyes pained.

“We shoulda had your back,” added a second man, his large, muscular frame hunched in grief. He looked like he was trying to make himself as small as possible, not an easy feat for someone like him. Someone whose job it was to protect. 

“Indeed,” said a third man, his own bespectacled gaze haunted, regretful, “The blame is ours.” Something about him echoed with pangs of heartache and longing. His voice was smooth and accented, but he sounded so lost, so broken. 

“No, you didn't...it's not…” He wanted to tell them it wasn't their fault, that he forgave them, that he loved them. It was important, they had to know, but he didn't know  _ why.  _

They faded away before he could get the words out, their hurt expressions never changing as they rippled and disintegrated into nothing. “No!” he cried, “Please don’t leave me here!” But they were gone, and he was alone again. 

After that, he didn't feel quite as heavy, and his thoughts were more fitful, more solid, but they flitted about in tatters that he couldn't string together. Flashes played before him, fragments that bled and intertwined. Some felt  _ wrong, _ like they belonged to someone else. He saw white, so much sterile white, and cold, cold grey. Damp, musty air, fear and loneliness, prickling pain on his arms where needles jabbed, ceaseless beeping, cool, detached voices,  _ vitals are normal, subject is showing ninety-eight percent data retention. _

Parts of it felt old, far away, and other parts new, now, or both.

Then there were better dreams. Visions of those three men, the ones who had come to him and filled him with wistful longing and heart-stopping love. They weren't always sad when he saw them. Sometimes they were laughing, and he felt light and free, but even when they were dour he still ached to be with them. Seeing them made his heart clench, and he remembered words _ \--I love you Ignis-- _ that always brought one of the men into sharp relief. 

_ A handsome, serious face, glasses perched on a strong nose, that severe facade breaking, usurped by barely perceptible joy, a secret smile just for me. I love you, I'm so sorry-- _

From somewhere very far away, and what felt like a long time ago, he thought he heard shouting. His chest felt so heavy, like a behemoth was sitting on top of him, but so numb, so cold. Was this a memory? He opened his eyes and looked down, and there was something protruding from his chest, something cold and metal, coated in red. 

_ “Prompto, hang on!” _

_ “He needs help!” _

_ “I can't get to him! Look out!” _

There was screaming, the shriek of metal, the scent of earth and of blood, then silence. 

_ “Please, no. Please, gods, please, come back to me. I'm sorry, Prompto, I'm sorry, pl--” _

With a gasp of pain, Prompto opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, bleary, but it was  _ real  _ this time. Real and cold, and antiseptic--it was the smell of disinfectant, of damp cold burning in his nose that told him he wasn’t dreaming anymore, though it was still hard to think, hard to see in the dimly lit, white room. It was a foreign place, too solid and grounded after the endless, disorienting drifting. It hurt to be awake, and the beeping he’d been hearing for so long came into sharp relief, the pace quickening with his heartbeat. He did not know where he was, he did not know what had happened to him or how he had come to be there, but he did know one thing--he was not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this finished three hours ago but I got distracted looking at my old pictures and now I'm posting it when I'm ready for bed. 
> 
> P.S. Somebody was worried that this is in the Rule of Thirds universe, but I promise it's not. It's a different canon divergence AU world that I will hopefully expand on more at some point. I also just almost wrote down info about Rule of Thirds instead of Sleeper which shows how tired I am that I completely forgot what story I was updating.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another pretty short chapter, but again, it conveys what I wanted it to convey more or less. The chapters might get longer once we start getting to that good story meat.

The funeral was, in a word, draining. Ignis had not attended funerary services for anyone since his parents had died, and he’d been almost too young to remember that day properly. The day they buried Prompto was one he knew he would never forget, not even should he want to. 

King Regis made arrangements seeing to it that Prompto would be put to rest with all of the accolades due such a hero. A life had been given in sacrifice to save the prince, and that life would be honored and remembered. The ceremony reflected that, somber though it was. Even the king himself was in attendance, though he stood at the far end of the dais, flanked by several of his glaives. There were speeches about bravery and loyalty from politicians who had never met Prompto, who would have sneered at an outsider in the Crownsguard a week ago. 

Ignis loathed every moment of it. He would have done anything not to be there, to not have to witness all the false solemnity and pomp. Forget draining; the only word for such a farce was ‘excruciating.’ Having to see the open casket up on the dais, wreathed in flowers, and the crowd filling the temple was  _ excruciating. _ None of these people had ever even known Prompto. They never would. They would see what the media portrayed, that sickening image of the brave hero who'd given up his life in service of the Crown. If Ignis ever found out who had decided to use Prompto’s death as propaganda he would...he'd…

_ Prompto was loyal, and brave, and so full of love. He made the world brighter by his very existence. Though he hid a secret pain and loneliness, he pushed ever onward. He was our heart and our inspiration, and he died not for our Prince, but for a friend.  _

That had been part of the eulogy Ignis would have given if he'd been allowed. “You are too close to this,” the councillor had said after reading the words. “I know that the two of you were...involved. We need to show the public strength, however; the circumstances surrounding this tragedy have worrying implications. Whoever was responsible for the attack cannot see how they've wounded us.”

How they had wounded Ignis, he meant. And Noct and Gladio. Only their sorrow was genuine, it seemed. 

As Ignis stood at attention, watching the ceremony, he found his gut churning. A part of him was glad he wouldn't be called on to speak. Everything about this whole affair seemed so...contrived. He was glad not to have to bare his pain in front of all these false mourners. Dignified as he strove to be, he doubted he could have withheld any emotion if they’d allowed him to speak. Including disgust. 

“He would have hated this.” Ignis glanced to his right. Noctis stood with him at the dais, behind the podium where Cor Leonis was giving an honest, if terse, speech on duty. That much Ignis appreciated. Cor wouldn't have read whatever patriotic nonsense the council tried to hand him. Cor, too, had to have cared for Prompto in his own way. The man had trained Prompto, after all, molded him from a gawky boy lacking an ounce of grace or confidence into a proper Crownsguard, fit to watch over the prince. 

“Yes,” Ignis murmured, just loud enough to be heard by Noct, and Gladio as well, who flanked the prince's right. They all stood in a row, beneath the platform where the coffin rested, heads bowed in mourning, hands clasped, dressed in their finest suits. “He would have.”

Ignis could almost picture him, then, standing with them on the dais, looking bewildered, overwhelmed by all of the attention. He would fidget and bounce and lose interest quickly, and wind up distracting the rest of them.  _ Who even are all these people? Ugh, look at all the flowers! I mean, they're pretty but I'm super allergic to pollen. Iggy, how much longer do we have to stand up here, I gotta pee. And this suit collar is too tight.  _

“He'd be talking a mile a minute,” Gladio muttered, hands clasped in front of him. His words echoed Ignis’ own thoughts. 

“Only Specs would be able to shut him up,” Noct added, and there was a flash of misery in his deep blue eyes. All of them had been there, had witnessed the horror of watching their companion die. They all carried that pain. For Ignis, it sat in the center of his chest like a cold weight. He felt so numb and weary, empty. In certain moments the horror would dawn fresh with a stab of grief, but he'd grown adept at mastering his pain in the past few days. 

_ I'm sorry you guys. Looks like I messed up again. _

“It's not your fault,” Ignis whispered, this time too softly to be heard. 

The marshal's speech ended with Ignis having only caught a few words of it, though those had been sincere. Barring that, none one of this felt like it really meant anything. All the words were shallow, the faces in the crowd wreathed in mourning black, though most of them were treating the memorial like it was a social event. A somber one, yes, but there were people in attendance who were only there to be seen. Cameras had been forbidden inside the temple--and how Prompto would have balked at that--but he knew there were droves of reporters waiting outside. 

His stomach turned again at the thought, and then he realized with a start that they were starting the queue up to the casket. To say their last goodbyes. 

With an effort, he fell into step behind Noct. The prince was making an effort to keep his shoulders squared, though he couldn’t seem to lift his chin. They were already on the dais, only a few short feet away from the casket. Ignis couldn’t blame Noct for wanting to avert his gaze. How terrible would it be for the royal advisor himself to simply turn and leave?  _ Don't you dare, _ he hissed silently at himself.  _ You cannot abandon him here, not again.  _

_ I love you, Ignis. _

Gritting his teeth, he took another step forward, jaw aching. Noct was at the coffin, head bowed even further, shoulders hunched now. There was a rushing noise in Ignis’ ears, a howling almost, and he couldn't have said if the prince spoke any parting words or just stood there in silence. Gladio had fallen back to let Noct go ahead, and Ignis felt a large hand clap him gently on the back. Noct was finally turning away, his expression hauntingly blank, face sickly pale. 

“Go,” Gladio said. Noct retreated down the dais, and Ignis watched him go. He did not want to do this here, to accept that this was it, this was the end and if he said goodbye then all of this would be real, there would be no going back. Thus far, he had successfully avoided looking into the casket. Perhaps it would not have been so intolerable if he could have done this alone, but they were hardly going to empty the temple out just for him. 

Steeling himself, he stepped forward, forcing his legs to work, to place one foot in front of the other. The effort that it took to drag his gaze up to the coffin was staggering--his vision actually wobbled, and for a moment he was certain he would lose his footing, collapse on the dais. If he were lucky, the floor would open beneath him and he’d be swallowed up. 

Against all odds, his vision steadied, and he realized he was looking straight into the opened lid of the coffin. 

Prompto could have been sleeping. Only, Ignis knew that he wasn’t; Ignis knew how Prompto really slept; lips slightly parted, a soft, barely perceptible snore emanating from the back of his throat. Sometimes his nose would twitch when he was dreaming, and if he had a nightmare his mouth would twist and tremble, his eyes would scrunch up tight, and Ignis would reach over, carding fingers through his soft blond hair, murmuring soothing nonsense until--

A soft gasp escaped him, and Ignis clamped his mouth shut. Prompto was not asleep. His eyes would not open. The makeup they had smeared on his skin to hide the mottled colors of death obscured his freckles, and the markings that had been painted on were wrong, all wrong. Ignis had traced those freckles with his eyes and fingers and mouth enough times to have mapped out each and every one. 

_ Stop staring,  _ he heard Prompto say, his voice shy. The words conjured up an image of soft, rumpled sheets, tousled hair, skin still slick with sweat, a glow of warmth that permeated the air, filled Ignis’ lungs, made his heart pound. 

Ignis realized he was holding his breath, and slowly let it out through his nose. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he forced the stiffened fingers to relax. 

_ I love you, Ignis.  _

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “I should have…” He had gone over that night dozens, hundreds of times. The logical part of his mind failed him for the first time in his life, and he couldn’t stop agonizing over it, picturing every second in agonizing detail over and over again. How could he have protected all of them at once when they were separated? Those creatures had driven him away from Noct and Prompto, and they had been stranded, no Shield, no advisor, surrounded by Magitek infantry. And then...and then...Prompto had pushed Noct aside, and the grappling spike had--

There had to have been something Ignis could have done, but even if he figured out what that something was it would mean nothing. There was no going back. 

“You were...you were my heart,” he whispered, reaching out and resting his fingers on the lip of the coffin. “I wish I could have protected you. I wish that I hadn’t been so...so  _ foolish. _ I should have told you how I felt for you. I’m so, so sorry, Prompto.” 

Prompto deserved better than a few shallow platitudes--deserved better than all of this--but the words stuck in his throat, everything he wished he could say trapped behind a tight knot. Ignis turned away, numb again, and followed Noct’s path down the dais, rejoining him down by an emptying pew. They would have to remain in the temple while the line of “mourners” said their piece. None of them deserved that chance. 

Noct sat on the wooden bench, and Ignis perched beside him. For a long time both of them were silent, even after Gladio finally joined them. “What are we gonna do now?” Noct asked finally, and he sounded so lost, like he was a child again, come to Ignis in the night because the terrors were too much. 

“We carry on,” Ignis said, the words coming to him, leaving his mouth of their own volition, “and we remember.” That sounded like something he would say, though it felt vacant of sentiment to his own ears. 

How was he--how were any of them--meant to move on from this?  _ I couldn’t even say goodbye to him. Even in death I can’t give him that much.  _

Out of the numbness Ignis felt something then, something twisting and cold and dark. It filled his chest, settling into his ribs and lungs, and he could do nothing but accept the leaden weight of his own self-hatred. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :^( 
> 
> If you read my other fic you'll probably know that my job is currently trying to eat me alive, so updates might continue to be sporadic. But I love you <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the plot might start becoming clearer with this chapter. It's a little longer too, and it's one of the chapters I didn't even have partially pre-written, go me.

Prompto’s mouth was so dry, it felt as though he’d never had a sip of water in his entire life. His tongue even felt like it had swollen and split at the very tip, which stung though he tasted no blood. The air in the room was oddly damp and cool, but it burned in his throat and lungs, which rattled wetly with every inhale. Was he sick? That would explain why he felt so shitty, so weak and befuddled, hot and chilled all at once. 

Everything around him was fuzzy, unfocused, so he blinked a few times to try and clear his vision. When that didn’t work he sluggishly recalled that he wore contact lenses--or glasses on occasion, though he preferred the lenses. When had he taken them out, exactly? And where...where  _ was  _ he?

_ You don’t belong here, _ a little voice whispered, warning and fleeting. But he realized it was right, in a slow, tired-beyond-belief sort of way. He didn’t know where he was, but at the same time there was a familiarity in the dim, fluorescent lighting and heavy air, more a feeling than a thought--and not in a pleasant sort of way. 

What did that even mean? Everything seemed a little bit beyond making sense of for his haggard mind; his thoughts were like wisps of smoke, curling out of his grasp each time he tried to reach for one to unravel. How was he supposed to think straight when he was bone-tired and desperately thirsty? 

There was somebody in the room with him, he could see that much at least. A shuffling figure in grey was looking over the faintly humming medical equipment set up around the flat, raised surface he was lying on. A bed? Hard and uncomfortable, but familiar again. Was this some kind of hospital? Had he ever been in a hospital before?

At the moment he couldn't fully recall, couldn't willingly dredge up thoughts or images from his memory. Any thoughts that came to him flitted to the surface of his mind of their own volition. It was frustrating, searching for explanations that drifted aimlessly through his head. 

He opened his mouth, tried to speak, but nothing came out even as the muscles twitched. It was like his throat and tongue didn’t know how to obey, how to form the words burning in his mind.  _ Hello. Where am I? Can I have some water? _

Another attempt, and he felt his voicebox truly straining, burning as if from disuse. Which was ridiculous, because if there was one thing Prompto was good at, it was talking. He hated silence, needed to fill empty moments with speech, unless...unless Ignis was there, with his calming, composed presence. Well, he wasn’t here now, which made something sting in Prompto’s chest, some awful something in the back of his mind ringing with  _ danger, fear, you need to get out of this place! _

Perhaps that was the motivation he’d needed. On the third attempt to make some kind of noise he managed only a raspy grunt, but it was enough to get the attention of the person who’d been hovering around him without even noticing he was awake.  _ Rude. _

With a jerk of surprise, the figure looked over at him, and seemed to stiffen. “Oh,” they said in what sounded like an older woman’s voice. “Oh  _ my--.  _ You’re-you’re--!”

“I’m what?” Prompto tried to say, but all that came out was another pathetic wheeze. 

Hands up, as if she were fending off some invisible attacker, the woman backed away and fled from the room through a door that had blended seamlessly with the white walls. Something about her reaction was strange, but Prompto could feel his brain fogging over again. Speaking had made his throat ache and he was exhausted, like just being awake these past few minutes had sapped all of his energy.  _ I don’t wanna go back to those dreams, _ he thought, vaguely petulant, mostly frightened. The feeling that something was wrong clung to the back of his mind like a creeper vine, but he couldn’t fight the urge to close his eyes.

_ Please, _ he thought, though he didn't even know what he was pleading for. Not that it mattered; before the woman could return from wherever she’d run off to, Prompto had fallen under again. 

x

_ “Hey, you ready to go?”  _

_ Prompto started, reaching up to wipe quickly at his eyes as Noct appeared in his peripheral vision.  _ Don’t let him see you’re upset, we all need to be sharp.  _ The thought sounded like an order, delivered in Marshal Leonis’ cool, measured tones. It was almost enough to return Prompto’s already tenuous composure--almost. _

_ Noct, of course, was more observant than he usually let on from day to day. It was easy sometimes to forget that he was trained to be just as deadly as his bodyguards, and part of Crownsguard training entailed paying attention to detail.  _

_ “Prom?” Noct came up beside him, and Prompto tried to look busy, like he was searching for something he needed in his open locker. Truthfully, he’d just opened it as an excuse, a way to isolate himself for a few desperately needed moments. He’d told Ignis to go on ahead without him, he’d catch up in a minute. There was nothing important in his locker, nothing he needed, nothing-- _

_ A picture of the two of them together was tapped to the inside of the door. It had taken a bit of prodding, but Prompto had finally gotten Ignis to agree to take a selfie with him. Honestly, it was a terrible photo. The lighting was poor, and Ignis was only barely smiling, looking like he didn’t know what to do, as if nobody had ever taken his picture before just for fun. Prompto’s face was at a bad angle, too, making his face look huge and his eyes were little wild. But it was the only picture he had of them both together, and so he loved it. _

(“I...I love you Ignis.”

“Why are you bringing this up now?”)

_ Prompto stepped back and slammed the locker shut, fighting down the urge to start crying in earnest. He couldn’t do this right now; it had been so stupid of him to even bring up something that huge before an important mission.  _ Gods, what if I ruined everything? What if he thinks I’m moving too fast, or that I’m too needy? _ The thought that Ignis might want to end their relationship over this made Prompto feel sick to his stomach.  _ I shouldn’t have sprung it on him like that. What was I thinking? 

_ “Hey,” Noct said, barging right into Prompto’s thoughts with all the finesse of a rampaging garula. Prompto realized he was worrying his lower lip between his teeth, fists clenched so hard that he’d have been cutting his palms with his fingernails if he weren’t wearing gloves.  _

_ Noct put a hand on Prompto’s shoulder and turned him so they were facing each other, brow furrowed. Anyone else would have thought his scowl was indicative of anger, but Prompto knew it for concern. “What’s the matter?” Noct asked, pointed and knowing.  _

_ The question almost sounded like a command, and Prompto nearly laughed. “Nothing,” he said, raking a trembling hand through his hair, scalp prickling as strands tore loose, his tone only a little hysterical. “I just told Ignis I loved him, and he...he…” _

_ Noct’s eyes widened as he put the pieces together, and his hand fell away. “Oh...Prompto, I’m…,” his gaze wavered, searching in the air around Prompto’s head like the correct words of comfort would be dangling there for him to choose from. “Do you...want me to kick his ass for you?”  _

_ Now Prompto  _ did  _ laugh. Ignis wasn’t even the one he was angry with.  _ It’s my own fault, I’m the one who fucked up.  _ The offer was genuine, of course, spoken again with all of Noct’s usual grace (which was nonexistent outside of battle). Reaching up again, Prompto wiped at his eyes and realized he felt a little less miserable. Not better, really, but he wasn’t about to lose it completely.  _

_ “Thanks, but no. I think...I need to talk to him, is all. When we get back.”  _

_ Noct looked relieved, and Prompto didn’t blame him. Even with all of his magic, the prince was no match for his advisor.  _

_ “Right,” Noct said. He glanced away for a moment, like he was trying to think of something to say again. Then with a sigh, he looked back up. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I really thought...Well, I guess Specs just isn’t as smart as he thinks he is. And I probably shouldn’t give life advice when I’ve been drinking jaeger bombs.”  _

_ Prompto offered his best friend a small smile. “It’s not your fault. I really wanted to tell him, I just...needed someone else to tell me it was a good idea. I dunno why I thought  _ you  _ were the right person to turn to, but--,” _

_ Scowling again, Noct gave him a playful shove. “Come on, loverboy. The others are waiting.” He took a few steps down the row of lockers, and paused to glance back. “And look...I’m sure Iggy’ll come to his senses. I mean, if he can pull his head out of his ass long enough.”  _

_ “Mean,” Prompto laughed, a weight lifting from his chest as he jogged to catch up with his friend. But Noct was right. Ignis wasn’t the cold politician he was portrayed as by the media. Prompto knew he could be gentle and sweet, he was just also...reserved. Or repressed. Not the easiest person to warm up to, and it was nearly impossible to crack his cool exterior unless he trusted you.  _

_ Thinking back, Prompto remembered dozens of warm smiles, discreet touches under tables, gentle kisses, and shared gasps, straining bodies in secret places, wrapped in sheets and each other’s arms. Ignis wouldn’t do those things with just anyone, he’d let Prompto in, let him get close, and all of that couldn’t possibly be destroyed with a single, poorly timed confession of love.  _

It’ll be fine, _ Prompto told himself, feeling a little more hopeful.  _ We’ll talk when we get back, and...well, I’ll figure out what to say then. _ In the meantime, they had a job to do.  _

x

When he opened his eyes again, Prompto felt not quite as fatigued, the haze lifted somewhat from his mind. Which would have been a relief, if it weren't for the strange man standing--no,  _ looming _ \--over him. Narrowed, watery blue eyes, long white hair pulled back, a wizened face. The old man wore odd clothes, robes that were tattered and worn, though they had the look of finery long past its prime.

Prompto wanted to yelp, but his throat only seized painfully as his body jolted with surprise. A rush of adrenaline cleared his mind just enough for him to realize he didn't like the way the old man was regarding him. He was  _ looming  _ just close enough for Prompto to make out his features and he looked...triumphant? Greed shone in his eyes-- _ familiar, why did they look so familiar? _ \--and it made Prompto shrink reflexively into the stiff mattress beneath him.

With a weak, shaking arm he reached up to grip his throat, a pained little noise escaping him.  _ Who the hell are you, and why are you looking at me like that, you old creep? _

“Ah, yes,” the old man said in a voice that was somehow hard and reedy all at once. “You should expect some discomfort in the laryngeal and pharyngeal muscles, as well as throughout the respiratory system, as you adjust. I expect it will take some time before you're fully capable of speech and basic motor functions.”

Prompto could only gape up at the stranger.  _ What the fuck is he talking about? _ Even with his blood pumping now it was difficult to order his thoughts, and it didn’t help that he was so damn thirsty. _ Water. Please, _ he thought. With shaky movements, he raised his hand from his throat to his mouth, miming drinking from a glass. Then he froze.

_ What...what the hell? _ His arm...his  _ hand… _

“We've been having to ration water,” the old man explained, oblivious to Prompto’s increasing alarm, “Otherwise you'd have been on intravenous fluids around the clock. In your current state, I wasn't able to justify providing you with more than one drip bag a day, you understand.”

Understand? How the hell was Prompto supposed to understand-- _ Why am I so...so thin?! _ He was emaciated, or close to it, bones protruding, muscles shrunken, wasted away. Breaths started coming faster, harder, sharp and shallow. There was a tube in his arm, but it wasn't connected to anything at the moment, and when he clamped a hand over his mouth he felt the little breathing tubes sticking out of his nose.  _ Am I in a...hospital? What kind of shit hospital is this?! _

The old man had turned away; he was speaking with an intercom on the wall, but Prompto couldn't focus on the words. He was too distressed now to focus on anything but his skeletal appearance, on the pain in his body and the way each breath felt like shards of glass. No wonder he felt so weak, so sick and weary. With a rising feeling of panic, he gripped the thin, starchy blanket that was pulled up to his chest, and peeled it back. The motion took a considerable effort, and he felt his eyes begin to prickle with frustrated tears.  _ Weak. I can't be this weak, I worked so hard not to be weak, to not be useless-- _

A short, terrified whine escaped him as he pulled the blanket far enough back to show his legs--they were just as alarmingly skinny and pallid as his arms. Prompto ran almost every day, he trained almost every day, how could he be so fucking thin? How long had he been here?

“I imagine this is quite a shock.” His head jerked up, tears spilling from his aching eyes. The strange man was watching him again, hands folded behind his back. He spoke clinically, detached, his expression observational and emotionless. “Rest assured, all will be explained in due time. For now you need to rest and regain your strength. We'll run cognition tests in a few days to see how well your mind has adjusted to the transition.” 

_ What in the name of the Six are you talking about, you old fuck?!  _ Prompto squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to banish this place, all these strange and awful things. Much to his dismay, when he opened his eyes, the room remained, as did the stranger who only watched him with cold interest.

Prompto could only sag, arms dropping uselessly to his sides, all of his energy expended. There was nothing he could do, nothing but lay here and wait for answers.  _ Did they do this to me? Why? _ He wanted to sob and demand an explanation, but he wasn’t even certain that he could  move again. He wanted his friends to be here, a familiar face to comfort him and tell him he was safe. He wanted Ignis. He wanted to be held, for Ignis to pat his hair and rub his back the way he did when Prompto had a nightmare, because if this wasn’t a nightmare then Prompto didn’t know what else to call it. 

The door behind the old man opened, and the woman from earlier entered. She looked to the stranger, a glass of water clutched in her hands. He nodded, and she approached the bed slowly eyes wide and cautious. A part of Prompto wanted to shove the glass away as she held it out to him, but thirst overrode his fear.

She had to help him drink, supporting the cup against his lips as he tried to swallow.  _ Tried.  _ Like his throat didn't know how to perform such a basic motion. Only a few mouthfuls made it down, and they settled poorly in his roiling, empty stomach.

Quickly, as soon as he turned his head away, the woman retreated. Prompto ignored her, leveling a glare at the old man. If he was stuck here for the moment, then he was going to get an answer to at least one of his questions, the most prominent resting firmly at the front of his mind.

“Whe-where?” It was all he could manage; a single, strangled word that made his lungs scream and his throat clench. 

The answer he received chilled him to the bone, though he didn't understand why. Maybe it was the icyinflection in the old man's voice, or the maniacal gleam in his eyes. Whatever the reason, he felt his stomach drop as the stranger spoke; “Why you're home, my boy. You've finally come home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you guys, I'm sorry I keep making you sad but I really like this story lol.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been hecking busy working on my Promnis Big Bang entry and writing multiple other fics because I'm not good at managing my time, but this fic is surprisingly easy to write. So here's an update.

_ “You should have told me you were a virgin,” Ignis said, his voice like dark velvet in the aftermath of passion. He trailed calloused fingers in skilled patterns up and down Prompto’s naked back, over skin still damp from their exertions, his body deliciously raw and aching.  _

_ “Virginity is a social construct,” Prompto mumbled into the nest of his folded arms, not bothering to open his eyes. Drowsiness made him feel heavy, content and sated from Ignis’ touch.  _

_ Ignis shifted beside him, and Prompto felt a wet kiss bite into his shoulder. Admonitory but painless, almost forgiving.  _

_ “Pertaining to the stigmas surrounding purity, yes, but I could have hurt you.” There was concern in the words, exasperation, but fondness too.  _

_ “You didn't,” Prompto assured him sleepily. “It was fun.” _

_ “Fun,” Ignis echoed, and Prompto could hear his smile. “I suppose it was.” Another kiss, this one sweeter, placed on a freckled cheek. _

_ Ignis was silent for a few minutes. Prompto’s body throbbed with the memory of being fucked by him, how it had  _ hurt  _ until it hadn't anymore, how the pleasure had made him feel like he was igniting from the inside out, like he would burn away. ‘Fun’ was maybe an understatement.  _

_ “Can I buy you dinner?” Ignis asked abruptly, his hand stilling on Prompto’s back.  _

_ Prompto had nearly been asleep, but he cracked open one eye to look up at Ignis. His expression was hidden in the shadows of the room, but Prompto thought he sounded hopeful. _

_ “Aren't you supposed to buy me dinner  _ before  _ trying to get into my pants?” he asked cheekily. Then he yelped as Ignis slid a hand down and pinched him on the ass.  _

_ “If you're going to be impertinent, then I retract my offer,” Ignis said with a laugh. _

_ “Ow! You're a jerk, y’know that?” Prompto winced as he rubbed his backside.  _

_ “So is that a yes?” Ignis asked. _

_ “In spite of my better judgement? Yes.” _

_ x _

Sweat made the sheets cling to him like a second skin. For a beat he almost thought the dream had followed him back to reality, that Prompto was lying there beside him on the bed. If he reached out he would feel heated skin, silky beneath his calloused palm, and Prompto would whine and tell him to go back to sleep. 

Ignis blinked into the darkness, afraid to move, afraid to break the illusion. The room was too silent, though, absent of Prompto’s snuffling breaths, the barely audible buzz of his snoring. No one occupied the empty space on the mattress next to Ignis’ own contorted body, twisted awkwardly in sleep. 

“Gods,” Ignis choked out as he kicked, freeing his legs from the covers. He didn’t know what he was doing until he was stripping off his pajama bottoms and climbing into the shower, turning the spigot all the way to the left. Ignoring the way his hands shook and jerked as he moved, the way his entire body trembled, was impossible. 

Steaming water burst from the showerhead, nearly scalding, the only thing that could bring the tremors back under control. He was shaking so hard he wasn’t quite certain how he was still standing upright. Enduring the heat was secondary to regaining some semblance of control over his quaking body. 

For a time, he just stood there, head bowed beneath the spray. His chest ached with palpitations even as he tried to draw in slow breaths, lungs filling with soothing steam. Slowly, the shaking began to ebb. One hand braced him, pressed to the cool shower tile. Tile that he’d once shared with another warm body, trapped between his taller frame and the solid wall, _ fingers trailing along wet skin, scrubbing through foaming hair-- _

Ignis jerked his hand away from the tile, tilted on his feet, but managed not to fall over. If he had collapsed in the shower he might have just stayed there until the water went cold. Perhaps even longer than that. 

Never in his life had he had such vivid dreams or recollections. Prompto  _ had  _ been beside him in bed. Ignis could still feel the fading heat of pleasure from his own orgasm, the radiant warmth of Prompto’s sweat-damp skin, the soft puffs of breath when Ignis had leaned in close to kiss him on the cheek. He felt Prompto’s body against his there in the shower when he closed his eyes, could picture the way his blond hair would darken when wet, slicked back from his face. Ignis could count every freckle on his face, wanted to reach up and trace his thumb over a pinkened cheek...

Heavy breathing echoed in his ears--his own--he was seconds away from hyperventilating. His throat constricted as if it were about to close, to cut off all air. Fumbling, he turned off the water and blindly grabbed for a towel hanging on the rack on the wall. He roughly scrubbed the cloth over his hair, then gave himself a cursory wipe down before dropping the towel, leaving it where it lay as he went back into the darkened bedroom. When he found the clothing he’d worn that day, forgotten on the floor, he began tugging on slacks and shirt, unmindful of the water still clinging to his skin. 

Laundry littered the floor, not all of it his, though it was unlike him to leave things so untidy. A t-shirt was draped carelessly over the back of his desk chair, a pair of socks on the floor next to his bed that weren’t his, a few bracelets were scattered on the nightstand. All of it had been there for days, weeks. Ignis couldn’t bring himself to touch anything Prompto had left behind. He could barely stand to be  _ in  _ this room, in this apartment--the air was suffocating. Every molecule in his body demanded that he leave, that he abandon this place. Prompto’s ghost clung to every surface, hung in the very air. Ignis was sure he could still smell the other man, could feel Prompto lingering just out of sight. 

“He isn’t here,” he whispered to himself as he stuffed his feet into shoes. Everything was in a disarray. The Ignis of a month ago would have tutted and bustled about, picking up after himself as he shook his head.  _ Look at this mess,  _ he heard his own voice say.  _ You certainly seem to be channeling Prompto’s spirit.  _

Ignis ground his teeth so hard that pain shot down through the nerves, up his jaw and into his eyes. He had to squeeze them shut, pausing half-dressed as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. A month ago he was a fool. A month ago he hadn’t realized he’d had everything he could ever want. 

_ I...I love you, Ignis.  _ He could perfectly picture Prompto’s face in that moment--the shy hesitation, the hopeful smile, the flash of hurt when Ignis didn’t return the sentiment.  _ Why didn’t you say it back, Iggy? _ Prompto’s voice asked him, the look on his face broken, lost. He was so pale, almost paperwhite, and there was a hole in his chest, gaping red and horrible-- _ I love you, Ignis. Why didn’t you love me back? _

Pain lanced through his fist. It took Ignis an extended moment to realize that he’d punched the bedroom door frame, out of desperation rather than anger. He latched onto the pain, grasping at it frantically, hoping that it would ground him. Blood welled from split knuckles, and his fingers throbbed. He stood there, examining the swelling digits, wondering vaguely  if he’d broken his hand. At least the throbbing in his bones and the sting of his broken flesh made him forget about his looming panic attack. For now. 

Dressed in day old clothes, he left the apartment without knowing where he was going. He wasn’t even sure that he’d locked the door behind him, but he didn’t care. Living at the Citadel meant that no one would dare enter his rooms, not even a housekeeper. Not unless he invited them. Ignis had always been so particular about cleaning, preferring to take care of his own chores despite his limited free time. There had been something soothing in clearing away clutter, something that left him feeling refreshed. Now he doubted that he would ever recapture that feeling again.

No one troubled him as he walked the long halls through the palace, though he was sure the eyes of his fellow Crownsguard followed him as he passed. He saw none of them, barely paid attention to where he was. So many years spent at the Citadel meant he could navigate the place blindfolded if he had to. 

A door loomed before him without him remembering how he’d gotten there, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he stood in front of Gladio’s apartment. Without intending to, he found himself knocking--with his injured hand, partly because he’d forgotten, and partly because it just didn’t make a difference. 

“Who the hell--,” Gladio’s gruff voice rumbled from behind the door after several more knocks. When the door swung open, the Shield looked down at Ignis with surprise, then concern.

“You look as awful as I feel,” Ignis said, giving his friend a once-over. Gladio was rarely clean-shaven, but he looked somehow rougher. Drawn and pallid. They were all looking a bit worse for wear these days, Ignis was sure.

“The fuck did you do to your hand?” Gladio asked, ignoring the comment. Of course he would notice  _ that  _ immediately. Then again, the hand in question was streaked with drying blood, purple and swollen around the split skin. “Tell me you didn’t get in a fight.” Gladio’s nostrils flared, as if trying to detect the scent of alcohol, but there was none to be found.

“I did, in fact,” Ignis said. His voice sounded too normal, unnaturally level and controlled. “With the door frame in my bedroom.” 

Gladio stared at him for a long moment, then he sighed, shoulders sagged as he stepped back so that Ignis could enter the apartment. “C’mon in. Let's get you cleaned up.” 

They argued briefly when Gladio tried to press a potion into Ignis’ good hand. The words “stubborn asshole” were spoken, but Ignis prevailed in the end. He wasn’t even sure why he wouldn’t just take the potion. He needed his hand, but it just...didn’t seem important. Potions were difficult to make, infused with the Crystal’s magic. Wasting one on a foolish injury he’d inflicted on himself was…

“Sit on the couch if you’re gonna be a pain in the ass, then,” Gladio told him. Ignis did as he was told, seating himself and cradling his hand against his chest as Gladio disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged a moment later with a plastic box--a homemade first aid kid--and a damp wash cloth. 

Gladio took a seat on the coffee table after brushing aside some clutter, knee to knee with Ignis, and took his injured hand. It stung as he wiped the blood away, though his large, calloused hands were deceptively gentle. 

“Don’t think you broke anything, which is damn lucky,” Gladio said in his low rumble, “Still, you should go for x-rays in the morning. They’ll be calling us back to active duty soon, once the king’s decided our bereavement period has gone on for long enough.” 

Their squad had already had more time to grieve than was normal, more time than Ignis actually wanted. Not working only meant that he had countless hours to while away, lost in thought, with nothing to distract him. Paperwork and endless meetings would have been welcomely mind numbing. 

His Majesty had only given them so much time because of Noct, but it couldn’t last forever. The Prince of Lucis needed to be an example, he needed to buck up and soldier on in spite of his loss. Noct had been forced into the grief counseling that Ignis and Gladio had declined, and he wasn’t taking it well. None of them were handling any of this with anything close to healthy coping mechanisms, but the prince seemed to have regressed into the same hollow reticence he’d swathed himself in after watching his mother die.

_ How many times will he have to watch as someone he loves is ripped away from him? How can the Astrals be so cruel? _

Ignis didn’t realize he was crying until he felt a tear drip from his chin. It landed on his knee, soaking into the wrinkled fabric of his slacks. He didn’t move to wipe his face, and he heard Gladio sigh. Thankfully, the man remained otherwise silent as he finished wrapping Ignis’ split knuckles. 

“There,” Gladio said. He held onto Ignis’ hand for a moment, leaned forward and patted him once on the leg, “You’ll be good as new in a few day s’long as you don’t go punching anymore walls.” The words might have been teasing, but Gladio only sounded tired. He made to stand, but Ignis held onto his hand, ignoring the way it made his bruised bones throb as he stared numbly at the carpet between his feet. 

“Come on, Iggy,” Gladio said, imploring.

“It should have been me,” Ignis said, the words slipping out almost of their own volition. He wasn’t even certain he’d truly spoken them out loud until Gladio sighed again, more raggedly.

“You know he wouldn’t want you thinking like that,” Gladio said. There was no need to clarify who ‘he’ was. 

“But he isn’t here,” Ignis said, and finally looked up at his friend. “I allowed those--those  _ things  _ to separate me from Noct. If I had…” 

Gladio scowled at him, though the expression lacked his usual intensity. “You know you’re not the only one who lost someone out there, Iggy,” he said. The words took Ignis aback, and when Gladio dropped his hand, Ignis let him go. “He was my friend, too. And Noct’s  _ best  _ friend.” 

“I know,” Ignis said. Of course he knew that. But--

“Do you?” Gladio asked. 

Ignis couldn’t tell if the question was meant to be a rhetorical one. Gladio stood, and stalked away, his back to Ignis. “We’re all in mourning, but you can’t let this consume you. Our squad isn’t the only one that’s lost someone, and we need to get our shit together. I know you two were fucking--”

Ignis was not at his best. That was how Gladio was able to turn so quickly, to sidestep and catch the uninjured fist Ignis aimed at his face. 

“Don’t--!” Ignis snarled, but Gladio grabbed his other arm at the elbow. Realizing he didn’t have the will to break loose, the fight went out of Ignis, if it had ever been there in the first place, and he let Gladio push him back down onto the sofa. To Gladio’s credit, he did so gently, lowering Ignis like an invalid as he sagged into the cushions. 

They were silent again for a moment, and this time Gladio sat on the sofa next to him. “Look, that was a shitty thing to say. I know you cared about him--,”

“He told me he loved me,” Ignis said, and Gladio went still beside him. “Right before we left. I didn’t say it back.”

“Well,” Gladio grunted. “Shit...That’s…” It was rare for Gladio to be at a loss for words. Not that it mattered; there was hardly anything he could have said to that that wouldn’t have been a useless platitude. 

“I...I haven’t been sleeping,” Ignis admitted into the unbearable silence. “I can’t-- _ everything  _ reminds me of him, I--,” he cut off as his throat tightened, swallowing past the pain. He finally reached up and wiped the damp streak from his face. 

A minute passed. Two.

“You can crash here,” Gladio said, almost a whisper. “As long as you want.” 

The thought of not having to go back to his own rooms was such a relief that Ignis could have wept if he’d had the energy to do so. He knew he should have thanked Gladio, but all he said was, “Don’t tell Noctis.” Noct carried enough guilt over what had happened. Ignis would not add to it.

“You got it,” Gladio said, rather than arguing, which was uncharacteristic of him. Gladio spoke plainly, and didn’t see the point in keeping secrets--unless he knew that the truth would cause damage. “I’ll get you a pillow.” 

There was a blanket already draped over the back of the sofa. Ignis normally couldn’t have relaxed enough to sleep anywhere but in an actual bed. Now he was just tired. Too tired to think, too tired to worry. He wanted that release; to slip into darkness, to forget for a time that the man he’d loved wouldn’t be there when he woke up. 

Gladiolus returned with a pillow and a clear glass. There was about an inch of dark liquid inside of the vessel. Ignis took the glass when it was offered to him and knocked it back without tasting the contents. False warmth settled in the pit of his stomach, just enough to take the edge off his frayed senses and the pain in his hand. 

“Get some rest, buddy,” Gladio said, slapping Ignis on the shoulder. He left the room, then, leaving the light on behind him. 

Ignis didn’t bother turning it off. Prompto had hated the dark. He had told Ignis so one night when a storm had knocked out the power. He’d panicked, crying and trembling as Ignis held him, barely able to voice what was wrong. After the lights flickered back on he’d been so ashamed that he’d nearly left, even though it was three in the morning. Ignis had resolutely guided Prompto back to bed, and left the light on in bathroom where it would shine out onto them while they slept. 

Was it any wonder Prompto had fallen in love with him? Or that Ignis had come to love him just as much in turn? 

The only difference between them was the willingness to admit it; the ability to open his heart and make himself vulnerable had been Prompto’s most defining trait. _ And I threw that back in his face when he needed me. _

Ignis stretched out on the sofa, ignoring the blanket, staring up at the ceiling until he succumbed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading my sad fanfiction.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a hot writing streak right now, I gotta ride it for all it's worth, so here's this. 
> 
> Also, I forgot to mention last time but my good friend Eli made some beautiful [art](http://onpanwa.tumblr.com/post/164792913248/sleeper-by-dirtyhecker-its-all-fun-and-games) for this fic! Thank you Eli!!!!!

Prompto didn’t know what to make of the old man’s declaration that he had “come home,” but was something about the statement that made cold tendrils of unease stir in his belly. This place, stark white and sterile, cold and unwelcoming and hard, didn’t  _ feel  _ like Insomnia. This entire situation still felt plain wrong, from his emaciated body to the creepy vibes radiating off the strangers who occupied the room.

Being awake for those few minutes, the tension of speaking with suspicious strangers, had drained him. It was hard to string thoughts together between his desire to let his eyes drift shut, and the continuing sense of unease he felt prickling up and down his spine. 

“Wha...wh...?” His throat felt like it might crack, even now that he’d had something to drink. His tongue was clumsy and awkward, moving uncertainly in his mouth, as if he’d never used it before. He wanted to ask what the old guy-- _ familiar, but not, why did Prompto feel like he knew him _ \--was talking about, but the man just smiled at his continued verbal fumbling.

“You need rest,” he repeated in a greasy croon, the way his mouth stretched at the corners anything but reassuring. He gave a nod to the woman, and she set down the glass of water. Prompto watched as she bustled over to the side of the bed, to the tall rack with the clear plastic bag hanging from it.

“Wait, I...are…” The woman--a nurse, he thought--unwound a tube from the IV bag and attached it to the needle embedded in his arm. Clear liquid began to drip down the tube, making steady progress down into his veins.

All he wanted to do was ask questions, but he could barely articulate them in his head as more than fleeting thoughts, much less speak them aloud.  _ Where are my friends? Are they okay? What happened?  _ Exhaustion had burrowed into the center of his brain, and that was distracting enough without the addition of medicinal sleepiness now seeping into his bloodstream. Whatever kind of drug they gave him was fast-acting; in moments his tongue felt even more sluggish and unwieldy in his own mouth, his eyelids weighted down with the invisible force of drug-induced weariness. 

“No,” he breathed, and the weak syllable was all he could manage as darkness wrapped around him and began to drag him down.  _ Sleep, _ a voice whispered to him, and he couldn’t be sure if it was coming from within his head or without. The slithering voice held a touch of menace, regardless of where it had come from, and he tried his best to fight it, to force his eyes open. But the world blurred, the light dimming to pinpricks until even that was extinguished. 

Once again, he was alone. 

X

_ He was cold, standing in the rain, hugging himself in a vain attempt to ward off the chill. Floodlights shone down on the groups of huddling people, Lucian refugees from Leide and Duscae. They crowded the highway, shuffling and weeping as the soldiers at the checkpoint kept them at bay. From the darkness around them they could hear the cries of the daemons that had hounded their every step as they fled their homes. All of them knew there was no going back. _

_ The lights blazing down on them through the freezing rain were all that protected them in the night. As exhausted as they all were, nobody dared step outside of that narrow strip of highway. There were tents not far from there, but the military claimed they didn’t have the resources to extend their daemon repelling lights that far. They also wouldn’t permit the refugees to set up camp on the roadway, so they stood in this miserable crowd, tired and hungry but unable to rest.  _

_ All he wanted to do was sit down. He was so, so tired, and his eyes were hot and swollen from crying. Daemons had overrun his family farm and he’d been the only one to make it out alive. Or, he hadn’t seen his parents yet amongst the refugees, so they must be dead, right? He had run until his lungs were ready to burst that first night, then traveled by day to avoid the daemons, and slept at Oracle sanctified campgrounds when he could find them.  _

_ Not that he had really slept much at all. Most nights he curled up on the hard ground and cried until his body finally succumbed to numb exhaustion. When he couldn’t find a campground, or when he did find one and it was occupied and those occupants were unwilling to share, he would hide as best he could. That meant lying in the dirt under bushes or cramming himself into tiny openings in outcroppings of rocks and praying, too scared to cry in case the daemons heard him, too scared to sleep and be caught unawares. _

_ Eventually, a caravan of other survivors had picked him up as he’d been listlessly shuffling along the side of the road. He’d been cold and dirty and starving, dehydrated and in shock. They’d fed him and he’d fallen asleep in the back of a pickup truck surrounded by six strangers, but he hadn’t cared anymore by then.  _

_ Each night they parked their cars in a circle off the side of the road, headlights facing outward with everyone camped in the middle. When daemons approached they’d start their engines and shine as much light as they could into the night to repel the beasts. It had worked well enough, but they still lost people. The cars had begun to break down as their batteries died and they ran out of gas, and people began to panic and split off from the group.  _

_ He still wasn’t sure how they’d actually made it all this way. The group he was with had dwindled from about thirty down to twelve, and they now joined what felt like several hundred waiting to be allowed into Insomnia.  _

_ The trouble was that most of them had no papers, no more ID than a library card or driver’s license. He himself had nothing, no way to prove he was who he said he was. All he had were the dirty clothes on his back, and the strange marking on his wrist, the one he kept hidden by filthy sweatband.  _ Don’t ever let anyone see it, _ he’d been told.  _

_ What he wouldn’t give for a chair. Not even a nice chair, just something he could sit down on, and five feet of space around him without another shivering body pressed up against his. He wanted his parents, too--he wanted his own bed and a full belly and a nice, hot shower. There was an empty pit in his chest that all of his pain had receded into, all of his fear, so these thoughts didn’t bring him to tears the way they had at first. _

_ At the moment, he was entirely beyond emotion.  _

_ A ripple went through the crowd, but he almost didn’t notice it. Nothing had changed in the two days and nights he’d been waiting since his group arrived. He didn’t even remember which of the people around him he’d come here with. Faces all blended together in a mural of hopelessness, but now he saw something flicker in the somber expressions. _

_ “We’re moving,” somebody whispered, and the words were picked up and passed around like a chant.  _

_ “Everybody, line up! Come on, get to the side of the road!” Soldiers were moving through the crowd, pushing them toward the barricade on the right side of the highway. There was some resistance--they were afraid of being pushed out of the light, but heavy trucks began to rumble toward them and people scurried out of the way. The combat vehicles had those special headlights, the kinds that kept daemons at bay, and they were pushing into the night, extending the zone of safety.  _

_ Finally, they were all lined up in the rain, soldiers patrolling up and down the line, weapons out and pointed into the darkness. And the line was moving, slowly, inching forward in mere increments, but it was moving.  _

_ He had no idea how long it took before he was anywhere near the front. A group of soldiers in fancy uniforms, different from the soldiers who’d been guarding the checkpoint, came down the line with boxes of food. Military rations, but there was enough for all of them.  _

_ “Here, kid,” a man said, holding out his hand with an offering of a foil package.  _

_ “Who are you?” he asked dully. The man frowned slightly, and pushed the food at him. Slowly, with shaking hands, he took it, clutched the package to his chest.  _

_ “We’re with the Crownsguard, son. King sent us out here because the damn military didn’t know how to handle all you refugees,” the soldier explained, gruff but not unkind. “Don’t you worry, though. There’s plenty of space inside the walls. You’re safe now.”  _

Safe. Safe. _ It felt like a foreign word as it echoed around inside of his skull.  _

_ When he reached the front of the line, another soldier patted him down, searching for weapons he didn’t have. They asked him for ID, and he shook his head helplessly. There hadn’t been enough time to grab anything after the power failed.  _

_ “How old are you, kiddo?” one of the Crownsguard soldiers asked. _

_ “Fif-fifteen,” he mumbled. Somebody had wrapped an emergency blanket around his shoulders, and he hugged it to him to fend off the shivers.  _

_ “Damn,” muttered the soldier as she scribbled something down on a clipboard. “Name?” _

_ “Prompto,” he said through his chattering teeth. “Prompto Argentum.” _

x

When next he came awake, it was sudden and disorienting. The room was dark, save for blinking lights on the medical equipment, and one dull fluorescent humming just out of sight. 

Prompto groaned. His body felt so heavy and far away, like it wasn’t fully connected to his brain. He glanced down at his arms, too skinny, and too pale, no hint of healthy pink, no freckles to show that his skin had ever been exposed to sunlight. It was wrong, all wrong--his body shouldn’t look like this, he shouldn’t be wasted away--but he was too tired, too in shock to muster the energy to panic again. 

Until he looked down at his right wrist, and realized with a jolt that the black barcode there was laid bare for anyone to see. The thick black lines stood out like blazing neon signs on his paperwhite skin, drawing the eye inexorably. Anyone who saw the marking would immediately know that Prompto was  _ other _ , that such a strange tattoo could never be voluntary, never normal. And Prompto couldn’t even defend himself, couldn’t say that the markings were normal, because he had no idea why they marred his body.

Something thrummed inside of Prompto. Adrenaline, he thought. How had he not noticed before that he didn’t have on his wrist cuff, the thick leather bracelet that hid his secret shame? He had been so out of it the first time he’d woken up, so confused, the thought just hadn’t registered. He never took his cuff off where other people could see, after all, so his mind wouldn’t have immediately jumped to that particular worry. 

Quick breaths puffed out of his mouth, his lungs feeling strained for air even with the tubes in his nose helping him breathe. Shakily, he lifted both hands, clasping his left palm over his exposed wrist to hide the mark, as if that would make a difference. They would have already seen. When he was fully awake and coherent enough to interrogate, there would surely be questions. His friends would want to know what the barcode meant, where it had come from, why hadn’t Prompto told them about it?

And Ignis...Thinking about Ignis drove a spike of pain through Prompto’s chest that left him gasping. Instinctively, his hands went to his chest, clutching at the thin hospital gown as he whimpered. 

“Gods,” he croaked. What was happening? Flashes of recollection bombarded him now. None of his memories felt whole, but he saw his friends faces, Noct and Gladio and Iggy, other people who he thought he should know but whose names came slower. That smiling girl that was...Iris? Gladio’s little sister. And the king, solemn and dutiful, Regis Lucis Caelum. 

Snatches of memory played behind eyes he didn’t remember squeezing shut. Marshal Leonis, Prompto’s mentor whom he idolized and secretly adored. Clarus Amicitia, Gladio’s father. Nyx Ulric of the Kingsglaive, who Prompto had gone on one awkward date with before he’d started...before…

_ I love you, Ignis.  _

Images exploded in his mind’s eye. “Iggy,” he gasped, his heart clenching in agony.  _ Why did it hurt so fucking much...oh, gods _ . Everything in his head was in tatters, scenes and conversations playing out of order, too fast, too many at once to keep track of, and he was sobbing and clutching his head as the assault of memory flooded into him like an avalanche of glass shards.

“I’m sorry!” he wailed, though he didn’t know why, what he was sorry for. The pain in his chest was throbbing, growing, gaping, so red,  _ so cold, a spike of metal protruding from the front of his shirt. He didn’t understand how it had gotten there, but gods, he felt so cold all of a sudden, so numb. His legs crumpled and he fell, arms moving in a jerky pinwheel as he reached for the blade lodged in his ribs.  _

_ Movement raged around him, furious and loud and violent, and it seemed important, it seemed like he should be paying attention to  _ that, _ but he was already fading, drifting away.  _

_ “Prompto, hang on!” _

_ “He needs help!” _

_ “I can't get to him! Look out!” _

_ “M--sor-ry,” he bleated, red in his mouth, choking him. Someone was calling his name, shouting for him to wait, please, no, please, gods, please, come back to me. I'm sorry, Prompto, I'm sorry, pl-- _

_ But then he was gone. And the fog closed in. _

Light blinded him, and it took Prompto a moment to realize that the source was external. Rapid beeping, overlapping and insistent filled his ears as he blinked through his wet, swollen eyes. Someone was in the room, their outline blurry, and he shrank back from the shape with a wet whimper. 

“I told you it was too soon to let him wake fully,” a cold voice snarled above him. The old man, his features twisted with annoyance, loomed over Prompto. “The bio-transmitters need time to sift through all of the new information and integrate it into the host brain. If we fry the implant now, who knows how much memory will be lost.” 

“Besithia,” Prompto muttered, the name swimming up from unknown depths. Murky thoughts lurked in the place where the name had hidden, memories of fear and pain and--

“You see?” the doctor growled, a finger jabbed at a cowering Prompto as he twisted to look behind him. “The blockers didn’t transfer, he’s going to remember too much at once and go into shock.  _ At best. _ ”

“Oh, do relax, Verstael.” Prompto went rigid even as his gaze sought out the source of the new voice. “He was nearly comatose with the dose you had him on. I thought you were  _ eager  _ to run those cognition tests.” A voice he knew, a voice he had forgotten, buried deep, deep down where he didn’t have to remember.  _ No, no, no, no-- _

A man stepped into view, and ice gripped Prompto’s heart. Something stirred in the darkest corners of his memories; Prompto felt like he was being shredded apart from the inside as his focus was split in too many directions at once. Flashing images from one angle-- _ Ignis kissing him for the first time, eating lunch with Noct on the roof of their high school, pestering Gladio to do extra training with him _ \--reality biting at him in the shape of the doctor-- _ Besithia, Dr. Besithia, pricking needles and sharp commands, be still you foolish boy! _ \--and now the man who approached the bed with a smooth gait and a false smile. 

_ Don’t look, don’t look, don’t remember.  _

“He’s been here for nearly a month. Did you want to wait forever for full integration?” His smile didn’t reach the cold glint of his cruel, dark eyes. Everything about him stabbed at Prompto, the elaborate clothing, expensive but careworn, the unkempt hair, the menace that rippled beneath his words that nobody else ever seemed to hear. 

Without thinking, Prompto reached for the magic that burned in his nerve endings, grasping for the channels that he’d trained so hard to open so he could access the armiger controlled by royal blood. He reached and reached, and grasped at...nothing. His hands fell away from his head, fingers twitching to feel the magic-warmed grip of his pistols. All he had to do was summon them and pull the trigger and the smiling man would be dead. Every instinct screamed  _ kill him, do it now, now, now! _

Only...nothing happened. No matter how hard he tried, nothing happened. 

What was going  _ on? _ Why did every thought, every jagged flash of memory hurt so badly, why was he here, who were these men that they made fear boil caustically in the pit of Prompto’s stomach?

“Who--who are you?” The words fell out of his mouth, broken and hoarse through his panic, feeling odd and foreign on his tongue. Why did he feel like he’d just learned to speak yesterday? Gods, he wished he was asleep--everything hurt, it was too much, too much--

The doctor sighed, closing his eyes as though he were praying for patience. “Do you not remember us, my boy?” he asked. There was familiarity in his tone, cold and cutting, unfeeling. 

“I don’t--I d--don’t  _ want-- _ ,” Prompto realized he was shaking, violent tremors wracking his body.  _ Let me sleep, let me sleep, please make it stop. _ He squeezed his own eyes shut again, hunching, curling inwards, fists curling into the rough blanket that covered his legs. 

“Memory is a tricky thing, isn’t it?” said the smiling man, Ard-- _ No! No, no, no! _

Spots swam in the darkness behind Prompto’s eyelids, mingling with the images-- _ he was a child, alone and cold, crying in a stark white room, bandages on his arms, pain in his head. He wanted to be held, to cling to someone the way he saw other children cling to their mothers, but nobody ever came in his room to soothe him. They only came with sharp things, with their cards and books and cold commands.  _

The vision felt like something that happened to someone else, a stranger, but it played out in his mind from first person.  _ That’s not me. _ The denial rang hollow in his own mind.

“He’s not coherent,” said Besithia-- _ I  _ don’t  _ know him! _ \--as a scowl creased his aged features. Muttering under his breath, he reached for the IV bag and Prompto actually felt relieved to see the drip begin again. 

“Just enough to take the edge off this time, Doctor,” said the smiling man in a pleasant, cajoling tone. Dread crept up Prompto’s spine, and he sank back into the stiff pillow. 

“If you insist,” Besithia grumbled. “I suppose it can’t do any further harm. But if I catch you meddling in my work again, I’ll have you sent topside, Izunia.” 

_ Izunia, Izunia, bright red eyes glowing in the dark, nails like claws, cold, so cold. Blankets pulled up over his head, but they can’t keep out the voices, can’t keep out the monster. _

Prompto wanted to start crying again, but he held back the urge.  _ He wants me to be scared. Can’t show it, can’t show it.  _ But he had no control over himself, not now, not even when he was relatively calm. 

“Ah, look at that. He  _ does  _ remember me.” Delight, wicked and malicious, lit up Izunia’s eyes as he studied Prompto. “I suspect it won’t be long now, Doctor.” 

“No,” agreed Besithia. “Soon we can begin.” He reached out and placed a hand on Prompto’s shoulder in a possessive approximation of a fatherly gesture. “Soon,” he repeated. Greed, dark and hungry, shone in his eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3<3<3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got kinda wrapped up in other stuff (lots of bursts of creativity for other writing projects mostly) but this has been sitting in my folder for almost two months and I only had to add two paragraphs and edit it to get it done. That's just how it be sometimes, but I thank you for your patience. Enjoy the sadness :D

“No,” Ignis said, voice too sharp in the stillness of the room, “No, that’s not necessary.”

There was a long sigh from Marshal Leonis. It was his office in which they sat, a space that was much too cramped for someone of the Immortal’s status. But perhaps it only felt that way since every spare surface was occupied by haphazardly stacked paperwork, newspapers, and various legal and historical texts. There was only just enough space for a second chair for visitors in front of the marshal’s mid-sized desk, crammed between stacks of cardboard boxes. Ignis could only guess as to their contents..

Cor was not exactly technologically challenged; he liked to have physical copies of everything and preferred leafing through this jungle of paper over searching for things in the Citadel’s internal database. Prompto had often teased his mentor for this proclivity.

“Lord Scient--,”

“Don’t start with that,” Ignis said shortly. There was some leeway there, for his disrespectful tone. Ignis was a member of the aristocracy and the prince’s steward. Cor outranked him within the Crownsguard, technically, but he was a commoner who had earned his place. Ignis considered them to be more or less on equal grounds, at least in this instance.

A frown creased the marshal’s forehead, deepening the lines that were already there, but he said nothing about Ignis’ unusual rudeness.

“All right,” he said slowly, “Ignis. You know this is above both of our heads. His Majesty passed down the order directly. If you want out of it, you can go tell him. But,” and he held up a finger to emphasize his point, “you need to think about your position here at the palace. Prince Noctis needs both you and Gladiolus to have clear heads. What do you think is going to happen if you refuse? Do you think the council is going to stand for that?”

Ignis already knew the answer. There were whispers, had been for weeks, that he was no longer fit for duty. Grief-stricken over the loss of his male lover--and how he _loathed_ the way they spoke of things they didn’t understand--Lord Scientia was barely keeping himself together.

“I don’t need to be psychoanalyzed,” Ignis said stiffly. He was well aware that he was being unreasonable. A psychiatric evaluation was standard in these cases, but he wasn’t keen to sit down with a stranger and talk about his feelings. _Gods, I sound like Gladio._ But how could he endure questions about what had happened from a stranger without falling apart?

“The king says you do,” Cor told him. Then he sighed again and reached up to rub a hand over his eyes. “Look, Ignis. He’s worried about you. Regis, I mean. _I’m_ worried about you. I’m worried about _all_ of you boys, in fact.” He looked up, and Ignis was taken aback by the weariness he saw there. Cor looked like he’d aged ten years in ten seconds. _Grief,_ Ignis thought, and the hollow ache in his chest panged in recognition.

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” Cor continued, “but I know how you feel. I’ve lost people before, good people, and Prompto--,” his expression went taut, flattening with suppressed emotion. “I get it, is what I’m trying to say. I didn’t want to do the psych eval either, but you gotta just grit your teeth sometimes and do shit you don’t want to.”

“I’m well aware,” Ignis said. This time his words felt thick, lacking the cold sting he’d managed to maintain until now. It was a facade he was growing weary of maintaining, to be frank, but neither was he capable of sulking around the palace in a palpable shroud of mourning.

He had put in a request three days ago to be allowed to go back to work, desperate for something, anything to keep his mind occupied and numb. Paperwork would have been a relief at this point. Gladio had thrown himself into training, working unofficially with his little sister at times, spending hours running or weight training or pummeling a punching bag in the Crownsguard gym.

Ignis had attempted to join him a few times, and it worked to a degree, made him tired enough to fall asleep for a few fitful hours at night on Gladiolus’ sofa. He couldn’t keep it up for all hours of the day, however. Books couldn’t hold his attention, either, nor could card games or crossword puzzles or any other frivolous thing he’d tried. Not even cooking meals for his companions, or baking large batches of confections for the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive kept him fully occupied for long.

That was, of course, only on the days where he could summon the will to do more than sit in Gladio’s chambers, staring blankly at the television for hours, whether the device was turned on or not. On his truly bad days, Ignis could think of nothing other than losing Prompto. On those days, when the dark ache in his chest was too much to bear, he simply wished that he could cease existing.

What he needed was an assignment, to be handed a task and be told that it needed to be done. And when he finished? Another task, another job, an endless stream of work, like he was used to. Structure had always ruled Ignis’ time and without it his mind was free to wander, to think of things that made him want to punch walls and find quiet, empty places where he could weep his eyes dry.

With something close to shame, Ignis realized that his eyes had grown hot, threatening tears. He couldn’t remember ever being so prone to uncontrolled emotion. Every time he thought he had a handle on himself, _every time_ that he thought he couldn’t possibly have enough energy to cry anymore, he was proven wrong.

The hot pain of grief lashed at him once more, and he pulled his gaze away from the marshal. If he acted like this in front of a psychiatrist, they would never let him go back to work. Where had all his self-control gone? A month ago, nothing could have broken through his calm facade. It was why people thought him cold, why he made such a good advisor, because nothing could shake him.

_Perhaps I really am broken,_ he thought bleakly. He didn’t know what stage of grief he was in, but at that very moment he felt hopeless and forsaken, but also angry. When they let him back outside of the walls he was going to hunt down every magitek unit he could find and break them into pieces. It was probably futile, probably pointless, but they were responsible for this, _they--_

A thought occurred to him, some shadow of an idea that had been pushed to the back of his mind in the shock of the last several weeks. “Marshal,” he said, forgetting about his earlier lapse in decorum, “Have you...has there been any word about the unusual MTs that attacked us that night?” He lifted his head again in time to catch the way Cor’s eyebrows rose slightly in response to the change of subject.

Clearing his throat, Cor adjusted himself in his own creaking office chair and said, “Off the record?” Ignis nodded. Cor wasn’t supposed to be discussing matters of security with Ignis while he was on leave, but neither of them could be bothered to worry about that now.

“Another team was sent to sweep the area after you returned, as you know. They collected what was left of the MTs out there to bring back for analysis. The official story…” Cor scowled, a much darker expression than usual, even for his stern face. “The story we fed the media was that it was just a regular band of feral MTs, though there were about twice as many of them as normal. We came up with some horse-shit about how it was a combination of several rogue groups that had somehow escaped the notice of patrols.”

“And the actual analysis?” Ignis asked. At some point he had probably heard all of this on the news, but he’d been too numb or overwrought to absorb any of it. The idea that he was so grief-ridden and depressed that his memory was failing disturbed him.

Cor pursed his lips, but continued. “New materials,” he said. “No corrosion on the manufactured parts, and the daemonic residue was...fresh, for lack of a better word. Ferals are rusted, broken down, and the ichor is always degraded. Our scientists think these were newly minted MTs.”

Ignis felt his mouth go dry. He’d known as far back as _that night_ , of course, but he had been so busy dwelling on his own pain that he hadn’t had a chance to work out what that could mean. Now it seemed obvious.

“Somebody is still making magitek infantry,” he said, his voice sounding dazed in his own ears.

Cor nodded, expression grim. Then he leaned over his desk, voice lowering. “The king ordered drone flyovers of Gralea and every known Nif base, looking for heat signatures.”

“But...it was all destroyed,” Ignis said stupidly. “When the daemon plague became pandemic…” He remembered the orders, though he’d only been a boy at the time. They had all watched the footage of Gralea being firebombed on the news. There had been cheers in the streets of Insomnia, relief that the daemon plague was being burned away, but Ignis recalled his uncle looking pale and saying, “There are still people there.”

Rescue efforts had allegedly lead to more deaths of Lucian soliders than could be justified, so the Insomnian forces had been pulled back. Lucian spies had learned by then how Niflheim made airships, and Lucis had only constructed a few of their own by then, but it was enough to fly over the key targets and drop the flashbombs that lit up the night sky.

A victory for Lucis, it had been called. Everyone had been certain that any remnants of Niflheim’s government and their covert operations were completely destroyed. Or, that was what Ignis had been told--what they had all been told. Now he had to wonder, though it wasn’t exactly surprising to him that there were government secrets that even he didn’t know. For all that he was the advisor to the future king, he was still not ranked highly enough in His Majesty’s court to know _everything._

“We’ve always suspected that some element of of their government went to ground before the bombs fell. By then, nearly all of them had been infected, though. We never considered there would be enough left for the Nifs to launch any kind of retaliatory attacks on us. Gralea itself is a ghost town, nothing left but blasted ruins, but…” Cor shrugged. “We’ll see what the drones turn up.”

“And then…?” Ignis asked, though he already knew the answer.

“And then the ground teams will go in,” Cor said. He added nothing else, and from the way his mouth compressed, Ignis feared he had come to the end of what he was willing to discuss.

Ignis could draw his own conclusions, however. The ground teams would set up a preliminary base, but in order to keep any fortifications in place long-term they would need magic. More to the point, they would need Noctis.

“Thank you, marshal,” Ignis said, abruptly rising from his seat. “I’ll consider what we’ve talked about.”

Cor only nodded, not at all put out by Ignis' abrupt decision to depart.

In the hallway, Ignis paused and leaned against the wall, thinking fast. He could not allow Noctis to venture outside of Insomnia without a team--namely himself and Gladiolus. The prince was hardly fit for duty himself, though he continued to attend almost daily therapy sessions. As his advisor, Ignis was still privy to the goings-on of Noct’s private life, and he knew the prince was now also taking medication for depression and anxiety. It was only a matter of time before he was needed beyond the city walls, only a matter of time before he was declared fit for duty.

_He needs me,_ Ignis thought. Noctis would need him to be sharp in the field, ready for anything. Only...only Ignis didn’t know if he could be the same man he’d been before, reliable and ever ready. Ignis would lay his life down without question to protect Noct, that hadn’t changed, but how effective would he be if he were dead, or if he panicked on the battlefield? What if he couldn’t protect his prince? His oldest friend?

An image flashed through his mind--the ambush from that night, a body on the ground, the horrible blade protruding from the chest. His treacherous mind wondered if Prompto had felt any pain that night, if there had been enough time for him to be afraid, to realize he was dying.

The breath hitched in his throat, and Ignis realized he was pinching the bridge of his nose, though he didn’t recall reaching up to do so. His spectacles were pushed up on his forehead and he was breathing too hard. _Control yourself,_ he thought. Gods, what was he supposed to do?

What would Prompto want him to do? It was the first time the question had occurred to him, and he latched onto it, using it to anchor his thoughts. He imagined Prompto standing there next to him, vibrant and alive. He was smiling, though the curve of his lips held a touch of sadness in Ignis’ mind.

_You know what you gotta do, babe. I don’t think you really need my advice._

_No,_ Ignis thought, _I need you._

_Oh, Iggy. I know you miss me, but you can’t cling to me forever, and you know it._ In his mind, Prompto bit his lip, as he had a tendency to do, his beautiful blue eyes darting down, then back up. His expression was open, earnest. _You know I wouldn’t want you to be miserable like this, right?_

Ignis knew that these were his own thoughts, his own impressions being reflected back at him. But he also knew what Prompto would say to him, what Prompto would want him to do. He knew, too, how Prompto would behave, how he would regard Ignis through his dark lashes with a pink flush on his cheeks.

_You have to protect Noct, Iggy. That’s what I did._

Right. And Ignis knew rationally that it would be cruel, unfair even, to let Prompto’s sacrifice go to waste by refusing to accept what had happened. What frightened him the most, though, was having to relive those memories. Day after day he tried so hard _not_ to remember, to erase the grim visions of death and blood from his mind. No one would think him sane if he broke down sobbing during an evaluation because the memories were still too painful, too vivid to bear.

_But for you, my dear, I’ll try,_ he thought as he straightened, pushing away from the wall he’d been leaning against. He would try, and he would hold the image of Prompto’s wistful smile in his mind to keep the worst of the hurt at bay.

_Thanks, Iggy. You’ll be amazing. I know it._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna go lie pensively on the floor now.


End file.
